


desert glass

by cloudfree



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Caesar needs a doctor, Canon-Typical Violence, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, F/M, Intimidation, Kidnapping, Mild biblical allusions, Mild canon divergence, Misogyny, Non-Consensual Kissing, Power Dynamics, Slavery, The chronology of this fic is switched around, Trauma, Vulpes Inculta Being an Asshole, but it’s not going to be arcade this time, good karma courier, i don’t condone this, references to rape
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:40:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23626270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cloudfree/pseuds/cloudfree
Summary: Shot in cold blood, the phoenix shattered like desert glass, her shards littering the dust of an unmarked grave. But when she recombined, she was more deadly, more lethal, more beautiful than she had ever been. Having discarded the primal need for revenge, she now wanders the wastes in search of her own destiny.That is, until Vulpes Inculta cuts her hallowed journey short with corded restraints and dangerous words.
Relationships: (past) Female Courier/Joshua Graham (one-sided), Female Courier/Vulpes Inculta, Vulpes Inculta/Original Character(s)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 71





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Oookay, so maybe this has been done before. Like a lot of times. And probably has been pulled off much better than this, but I wanted to write my own Vulpes fic just because I could. And also because this quarantine is driving me insane. ;^;
> 
> I’m still iffy on whether or not I should continue this, because it was just a writing exercise, really, so I’ll see how I feel about it and how you feel about it and etc.
> 
> Anyway I hope you enjoy! Thanks so much for reading!

There is a phoenix risen in the desert.

This is the tale that spreads in hushed tones throughout the Mojave. Of a mysterious figure rising from the ashes of a premature grave, the cleansing fire of bullets that ripped through her skull chaining that infallible spirit ever tighter to her body. He’s heard this from his forays at the Strip, he’s heard it from the camps of the unsuspecting NCR troops they crush—word even spreads about the Courier to the farthest reaches of the desert, where neither Bear nor Bull have much influence.

Shot in cold blood, the phoenix shattered like desert glass, her shards littering the dust of an unmarked grave. But when she reemerged, she was more deadly, more lethal, more _beautiful_ than she had ever been. Having discarded the primal need for revenge, she now wanders the wastes in search of her own destiny.

Or so the story goes.

He hears it five, six, seven times, maybe more. All around, from all walks of life, the drivel of starry-eyed commoners, nobles, warriors. Not a single bad word is spoken about her from any recounting he’s heard, only glowing eulogisms and trills of praise. Eventually, Vulpes concludes, he needs to see for himself what the fuss is all about.

He doesn’t have to wait long or even seek her out. She turns up at Nipton of her own accord, the horror and disgust plain as day on her face the minute she sees the rising plumes of smoke drift from the ruined town. Her confident stride falters ever so slightly as she nears the town hall, Vulpes and his entourage waiting for her at its entrance. The Frumentarius lets her admire his handiwork before he approaches. Lining the streets of the town with its crucified people should serve as enough warning of the breadth of the Legion’s power. He wonders if there is some awe, some measure of appreciation beneath her flickering visage of pity and repugnance.

The pitiful mewling of the strung-up residents, the pools of blood sullying the ground all seem to affect her. She instantly turns her back to him and retches into the sand. If he wanted to, Vulpes could kill her right now, end the phoenix’s new life before she could take flight again.

“They didn’t stand a chance,” he says instead, staring down this peculiar woman after assuring her that no such harm will come to her here. Her hair is auburn, almost russet-red in the light of the Mojave, cascading down her shoulders in a thick, unruly pelt. “And they deserved what came to them.”

The Phoenix doesn’t appreciate the Legion’s ‘dog-headed envoy’ attempting to ‘play god’, telling him so with no small amount of consternation. Despite this, she goes on to spread Caesar’s word without further complaint. News of the Nipton lottery, the atrocities committed there, spread far and wide; the Courier does her job most splendidly.

As the days pass he catches wind that she has yet to choose a side, Legion or NCR, as so many before her have been compelled to do. She travels the wilds on her own, alone for the most part, a wanderer on the profane desert roads. Occasionally she will bring along with her a veiled scrap of a young woman, loud-mouthed and abrasive, or that shifty looking NCR dog with the sniper rifle, but these happenstances are few and far between. She carries no weapon save for a combat knife and the occasional explosive, seeming to disavow firearms entirely. 

That will make his job _much_ easier.

Another weapon in the Courier’s arsenal, it has surfaced, is that she is well versed in medicine. Prior to her rebirth, she was a travelling doctor operating in and around the Divide. Something had happened, but the records do not say what, that caused her to relinquish her position and assume the permanent role of Courier for the Mojave Express.

Caesar wants her regardless. His headaches are now debilitating. The glassy, unfocused stares and poor decisions under his command have become more pronounced, more glaring. He is running on borrowed time and those closest to him are made aware of this with greater certainty by day. Mars may not be of much help to him now, but a doctor certainly would be. Their lord absolutely refuses to consider anyone else.

Vulpes is one of the fortunate who are sent to retrieve her. Instructed to bring her to the Fort by any means necessary, they find her at a crossroads, looking somewhat lost. She fumbles with the handle of her knife like it has personally offended her. All this changes when she spots their advance.

The Courier holds her ground. “ _You,_ ” she spits in Vulpes’ direction. The same horror she expressed at Nipton, a small chip of it, remains floating in the scorched amber pool of her eyes. A reminder of the past, a mark he branded her with, that only the two of them can see.

“Courier,” he returns simply. 

She hisses at him like a nightstalker, sharpened teeth underscored by curled lips. “To what do I owe this pleasure? _”_

“Our lord Caesar is in need of your services,” Vulpes says. A slight incline of his head tells his guards to prepare themselves, the movement easily missed by most. The Courier, however, picks it up, and narrows her eyes.

“Oh? And what services might he want from the likes of me?” she asks, seemingly taken aback. “I thought the great and powerful Caesar had droves and droves of messengers and footmen at his command. You’ve wasted your time coming here.”

Vulpes’ eyebrow quirks. “We have no need for a Courier.”

“Then?” Her stare is challenging. She is feigning ignorance, he’s sure of it. “What else could you possibly want me for? I’ve done nothing to you.”

He mustn’t beat around the bush. “Caesar is...ailing,” Vulpes says coolly — to openly admit that he is near death would be an affront to his majesty. “He seeks a doctor that can cure him, and he has chosen you.”

“What? _Ailing?_ ” she echoes incredulously. “And...and you actually expect me to help that slaving scumbag?”

Vulpes ignores the jab and the accompanying urge to strike her for her audacity. To further bait the already-trapped game would cause unnecessary conflict. She will go with them, one way or the other. That is certain. “You will be given a most esteemed position in Caesar’s ranks, in addition to status, protection, and the luxury most of your kind can only dream of.”

He sees her eyes flash at ‘your kind’ and suppresses a smirk. “I don’t know where you got the notion that I was a doctor.”

“Don’t play coy, _Phoenix,_ the entire Mojave knows of your exploits. You travel this ruined excuse of a landmass helping all those you encounter. Your history and the tales of your benevolence stretch from the Outpost to the Dam and further beyond.” Vulpes pauses for a moment. “Consider this assignment another such, _ah_ , request.”

There is another pause as she takes in what he’s said. “If you’ve heard that much about me, you know that I do not extend help to slavers,” she sniffs, turning her back to him. “Filthy, murdering slavers, at that. So you can tell him I’m not interested.”

He creeps up behind her, gentle and deliberate. “You are making a grievous mistake.” From this distance he catches the distinct scent of desert sand —creosote, with a mild hint of that filthy Jet she is known to use in battle. Something delicate tripping alongside the wear and tear of salt and sweat incurred by rough living. She notices his abrupt closeness and leaps away from him, trembling slightly. It is the only sign of fear or submission she allows to slip past her impenetrable defenses.

“The outcome is worth it, I would think,” she says, quickly correcting the stutter in her voice.

“And if we were to drag you to him despite your wishes?” Vulpes snarls suddenly. “You have no one with you. You are alone, aligning with neither the NCR nor the Legion. No one will account for you after a while. Your deeds will vanish into legend and your name lost to the sands. What will you do?”

He wants to commend her for her temerity. “I can and will fight you off,” she replies, the haughtiness in her tone frustrating him; though he knows it is to distract him from her genuine fear. Behind Vulpes, the men start to stir uncomfortably. They’ve been witness to the scene for too long, and are getting shifty. “Or I will die trying.”

“Will you, now?” Narrowed eyes trail down to the blade holstered at her hip. Flimsy little thing. It would sooner snap in half before it ever broke skin. “You will do battle with the same knife you butter your bread with?”

“It’ll be the knife that slits your throat if you don’t keep walking,” the Courier snaps. “I may have no love for the NCR, but you’d be damned if you thought I had any to spare for you lot either. Now get the fuck off my back.” She rounds on him, staring with those piercing eyes of hers. Truly a wildcat, no better than the degenerate Fiends the Legion has the bad fortune of sharing sands with. In that moment, he sees none of the wondrous glory of the risen Phoenix, just a petrified little wretch with hair the color of burnished copper.

Of course, she is outnumbered several to one, carrying no gun or other weapons to speak of. Her words are just so — mere verbiage spewing from between the lips of prey caught in a hunter’s grasp. A pitiful way to bide time against the inevitable.

“You will surely reconsider once you have heard Caesar’s proposal, and he requires a personal audience with you nonetheless,” the languorous drawl of his tongue makes him sound resigned, uninterested. As if she has a choice. “We can go placidly. Or if you prefer, I will take you by force.”

He leaves out the part where they will inevitably collar and chain her to servitude once she has surpassed her worth, but surely she already knows that. Women are most suited to being broodmares and house slaves, and she, obstinate, defiant spitfire that she is, is no different once the tools of battle are wrested from her.

There is a pregnant pause as she glares at him, unmoving, unspeaking. Sizing him up. “No.”

He laughs. The reality of the situation is lost on her. She is but a prey animal, a spindly-legged gazelle in the jaws of a predator. And Vulpes isn’t named the desert fox for no reason. He licks his lips, still tasting the blood of a recent battle. This will be fun. “Seize her,” he commands. 

Without further hesitation, she is surrounded on all sides. The men circling her are hungry, watching with hooded eyes and tensed stances. They haven’t seen the soft, unkneaded flesh of a free woman in months. Unfamiliar with this inexplicable behavior shown by none but a common whore, most Legionary men are more accustomed to the meek, cowed look of the slave girls back at camp, the quiet submission with which they conduct themselves when approached. Her contrary willfulness shocks, attracts them, even.

Vulpes has always preferred his wretches with a little more fight to them. It is amusing, he reflects, to crack the thin veneer of resolve one has, make her work for what she desires, twist it around, take it away. Hold it out in front of her, just out of reach, until she begs for mercy and release. Watching the firelight of rebellion dwindle, spark by spark, in the eyes of a captured, once-willful, now-willing slave is most especially delectable. 

For the men in his company, those simpler many who aren’t nearly as well versed in the arts of pain and deception, a feast is about to commence. He could turn his eyes away and let them do with her as they wished—he is sorely tempted to do so— but their Lord Caesar has commanded that she be unharmed, for now. Vulpes waves a hand in their direction. “Do not mishandle her,” he adds, sounding bored, “any more than necessary, of course.” 

The legionaries obey. In moments, the Courier is stripped of her outermost armor, her hands bound with thick twine. That wretched excuse of a knife is snatched from her hip and folded away. She screams all manner of insults at them. “You filthy legion curs, just wait until I get my hands on you, I’ll raise an army of your so-called profligates and tear you apart tent by tent,” and so on and on until Vulpes tires of that too and orders her gagged with leather strips.

As they walk, he doesn’t miss her flinch as the men’s roving hands dip too close to the curve of her ass, far too close for her comfort. Oftentimes captured women will shriek in response, thrash in an attempt to preserve their modesty, but she alone remains fixed in place, dark, smoldering eyes staring straight ahead. Oh, what he would give to douse that flame. 

She lets them lead her like a broken mare, pliantly strung along on her leash of rope with the dogs mounting her sides. But her eyes never once dip below the far reach of the horizon, to where the sun slowly edges its way beneath that fine line. Nightfall is fast approaching. They will have to make camp somewhere.

After much deliberation, they come across a gecko-infested cavern. Vulpes leaves the Phoenix perched alongside two of his men as he goes with the others to clear the cave of its feral, slit-eyed inhabitants. Geckos are large, increasingly stupid, and easy enough to kill. They will eat well tonight—it has been a good day.

Camp is set up without much fanfare or hassle. The question of where to place the Courier for the night is answered as they bind her legs and arms together ungracefully, leaving her lying prone in a far corner. Vulpes elects to keep watch and the others drift off to sleep by the mouth of the cave.

Legionnaires sleep fitfully and minimally, so he will have to keep his motions quiet, as he is accustomed to doing. Already, he is looked upon with disdain from the majority of his peers due to, as they say, the prevailing influence of his tongue in military affairs. No matter that his ways have secured many a win for the Legion; Vulpes is far too cunning to be easily trusted. Or so they think.

Maybe they are right. Distracted, he notes that the Courier is still awake, wrapped uncomfortably with ropes that bite into her skin like asps. She had somehow managed to prop herself up into a sitting position, her body lolling against a jutted-out wall on the side. 

As he approaches, she regards him frostily. The gag in her mouth remains. He removes it and sits cross-legged before her. “We could have done this the easy way,” he murmurs, not unkindly. Taking a strand of her hair, he pushes the unruly lock back over her shoulder. She struggles pitifully. 

“Has anyone ever told you how terrible,” she whispers contemptuously. “evil, and inhumane you are?” 

“Flattery will get you nowhere.” His low chuckle reverberates around them, the childish insults bouncing off of him harmlessly. “But yes, it has been said.”

They watch each other, two beasts, one in chains, circling in a mad scramble for control. “I’m not an idiot,” she says. In the dark her eyes are fixed on him. He could take his warmth from the intense fire in them. The sheer determination he would like to crush, bit by simmering bit. Everything about her is hot and unwieldy —it excites him unimaginably. “I know that Caesar has no plans of letting me go once my work is done.”

“I never insinuated he would do anything of the sort,” Vulpes says calmly. “I would not tell you such a brazen lie.”

“A small mercy,” the Courier retorts. 

She watches him shift with a scowl on her face, tones of conflict playing openly there. She is a beautiful woman, even in the dark. Even as she struggles to comprehend her true fate, even as those lovely features twist with rage and hateful emotion, he is still drawn to her flame.

“So what _does_ come after? I become another slave? A glorified bedmate, at Caesar’s mercy? Free to use and be tossed around for every service I could possibly be milked for?” The Courier snarls. “I would rather die.”

“But there is more use for you yet, woman.” Vulpes replies. He allows himself to be satisfied with leaning closer into her, though there is certainly more that could be done. Trapped between the stone slab of his body and the rock face, she has no room to struggle or shy away, but she tries anyway, inclining her chin upwards and unintentionally baring her throat to him as she scrabbles to get free. “And let us make one thing clear.

It is not Caesar’s mercy whom you will be at.” He grasps her chin and forces her to look at him, right into his eyes. “It is mine.” With that, he releases her. He pushes his nose into the depression between her chin and her bottom lip, nuzzling the underside of her jaw. Her eyes widen imperceptibly, their spark faltering, before she closes them in resignation. Breathes a deep sigh.

“This will not break me,” she says quietly, defiantly, probably more to herself than to him. He glances at her, amused by the futility of her determination. She really believes this. So he pushes past her cheek and lets his lips rest there, featherlight, reveling in her violent flinch and the way her pulse races in response.

“You will not break me,” she repeats, but her voice is weaker this time, more subdued.

“Maybe not now,” he takes care to let his breath ghost across the shell of her ear, dragging his voice to the lowest timbre it can go and relishing her unmistakable shudder, ”but slowly, surely, like the sun crawls along the Mojave waiting for the moon to take its place…. _vide et credere._ ” 

He returns to the warmth of his bedroll and sleeps as the Phoenix writhes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _vide et credere _\- see and believe.__


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I felt like I could continue this, so I wrote another chapter :) I’ve been letting this story go its own way, so sorry if it reads a little rough. I’ll likely add more coming forward, but for now it’s marked as complete.
> 
> Here we go :)

Her dreams drag her back to a sprawling wilderness, surrounded on nearly all sides by the arid scarlet of mountain desert. She is in the darkness of a cave — her eyes need not adjust, because this is a dream, after all. The man in front of her is just as memorable as he was when she left him: piercing, otherworldly eyes, a profile wrapped entirely in bandages. 

A messiah appears to her in the wake of nuclear fire, the devastation unleashed by her own hands. His voice rings out like an echo, unintelligible but soothing in the deep, sonorous sound. She hears it and is still. Some part of her warns of the danger that relaxing is sure to bring, but she ignores it.

~~

When she’d found out about the sins she’d committed, the first thing she did was run, a coward’s act. She ran far and foul, her promise to do no harm cast off in the rubble left behind. Taking up with the closest caravan job that could whisk her far away from the damage she’d caused, she followed them for weeks until they, too, perished at the foot of the new world. Was everyone she chose to fraternize with destined to die in the end?

That day, the day she stumbled into Zion Canyon, was a day she would never forget. Newly alone, hunted by her own demons and the dreadlocked ones carrying sharp throwing spears, she fell into the Dead Horses’ camp rather inelegantly, surprising the mild mannered tribals within it. They held her at weaponpoint until her dam broke. The sounds of her anguish brought forth their leader, a quiet, righteous man, who leveled their wordless threats of violence with a single motion of his hand.

Within minutes, she was assigned a bed and given warm food to eat, her soaked clothes replaced and hung to dry. Unused to the hospitality, she could only stare at him in speechless gratitude. He spoke to her in their shared language and then in the foreign pidgin-tongue to the tribals, no doubt assuring them she meant no harm. She didn’t understand. She was a monster and a fraud. Someone undeserving of kindness, of the pride and honor she once had.

She hated herself the most for letting them — letting _him_ — think otherwise.

Even now she remembers his eyes the most. They are the most piercing shade of blue, the color she imagines pure water to be, melted down from ice and left free of the taint that human tampering tends to bring. A color that rivals even the freshest Nuka-Cola Quantum in its iridescence. With pinpricked pupils they can stare at you and make you feel as though you are laid bare for God himself to see.

Certainly, that’s how she felt, going there to be judged. She spent long hours with him in penance, quietly seeking out the fluid way he examined his guns. Click, slide out, inspect, unload. Then load again. Rinse and repeat. He told her of his story as he did so — his fall from grace, how the Legion blanketed him in pitch and threw him, blazing, from the tops of the Grand Canyon. As though his loyalty, his repeat successes, the betrayal of everything he had held dear — were nothing. _Loyalty is nothing to Caesar,_ he’d said, pronouncing the name like everyone else did. _Once your worth runs out, you are nothing._

She, in turn, didn’t tell him about the hand she’d caused in destroying an entire world, just a stone’s throw away from her own. How she was just as bad as the man they both abhorred. It was a silent coexistence.

“I was baptized twice, once in water, once in flame,” he’d said, with a conviction that almost returned her faith from the rubble she’d left it in. ”I will carry the fire of the Holy Spirit inside until I stand before my Lord for judgement.”

He was a strange man. He trusted her and he trusted in her goodness. She helped him take his revenge against the men who had hunted her so exuberantly, the same men, sent by Caesar, who had tortured and slain his adoptive family before she arrived. Though they were yet to become Legion, kept clean by an unfulfilled rite of passage, they were Legion all the same to the two warriors. Indiscernible in their ferocity, their lack of redeemability. When the bloodshed ceased and the last of the bodies fell, he only glanced at the vacant look in her eye before he’d invited her to stay for as long as she needed. 

The offer was tempting enough that she took it. As the weeks compounded she almost felt like it might become home, if she willed it hard enough. Graham was kind, patient, and generous. An old world’s God had taken the inferno out of him and created a hearth, and though she, too, was given its warmth, it left her in want of something more.

One night she crept upon him in his cave, scared senseless by her nightmares. He’d welcomed her graciously, spoke to her in gentle tones. The quiet rush of the river water outside and the crackling of the fire within were the only sounds could be heard. They were alone. Then they’d gone quiet for a moment, she’d leaned in, if only to see those eyes a bit closer…

And balked, when she later opened her own and saw that the blue in them had darkened to the point of no return. Sadness and her own face reflected back at her, understanding. He’d shaken his head quietly, still saying nothing, and she’d run from there, too, without a second glance.

She took the map home and ran all the way, like the worthless coward she kept proving herself to be. 

Back in the Mojave she was given a sinner’s welcome—as was deserved. A man in a checkered suit wearing the devil’s face shot her in the head and left her to rot, and in her last moments she was content, happy, even. She’d pay for her actions with her life.

Imagine her surprise when she came back to consciousness, not only safe and whole, but with a title she didn’t deserve. _Phoenix._

But perhaps this was her punishment. If her sins could be absolved, like Joshua often preached, then perhaps they were meant to be absolved in the bonds of servitude. Was this her hell, her purgatory? Was she meant to find redemption beneath the iron hooves of an unyielding bull?

~~  
  


Graham’s voice tells her that God is with her, always. Always watching. Seeing, judging. His love will deliver her from her sins.

She wants to laugh and laugh, but she listens to him until her ears ring. 

He goes up in a mushroom cloud, and the flag of the Bear rises, blood red in the sky. The ground she walks on is littered with bones, hundreds and hundreds of them. Tiny, fragmented bones. The faces, burned into the earth. All around her, the desert is screaming. 

Oh god, what has she done.

~~

Waking to a throbbing head and bound limbs, she wonders if the bullets put through her skull count as a sort of baptism in their own right. Her eyes squint in the dim light of the cavern. She is on her side against the cold dirt floor. There is no movement from what she can see — everyone's still asleep. 

Her gaze swivels over to the bedroll where she knows her most egregious captor sleeps, his back to her; without that ridiculous dog-head helmet, he could almost pass for human. He stirs, like he knows she’s watching, and she instinctively slips her eyes shut. There is no solace for her in the outside world. There is no solace for her here, in her own head. She may be reborn, but the sins of her past still hold strong and firm.

Part of her wishes that she had died back in Goodsprings. That the muzzle of Benny’s gun had been just a bit more threatening, the bullets just a bit more potent, so she could be dead and free and redeemed. 

“I know you’re awake, Phoenix.”

She flinches, despite herself. Opens a single eye. “It’s difficult to sleep when you’re bound and cornered.”

A short, forceful exhale from his nose. He rolls over to his other side so he can face her, propping up his head on his hand. “You were unwilling to go with us peacefully. That is your own fault.” His voice is deep and nasal, crinkling like a holotape recording. Hypnotic, almost.

“First, don’t call me that,” the Courier hisses quietly, opting to change the subject and clear her own head. “And weren’t you supposed to watch me for the night? What would Caesar say if you came home empty-handed, if I’d gotten up and fled while you all were asleep?”

Vulpes smirks coldly. “Then why didn’t you?”

She has nothing to answer with, so she doesn’t.

“That’s what I thought.” There’s amusement in his dimmed face, easy to read. He seems to take pride in showing only the most malicious emotions he can possibly dredge up. Maybe that’s all he can feel. “You are a very funny little bird.”

The comment makes her scowl. “And you are a sick bastard.”

“ _Lupus non timet canem latrantem.”_

“I am no dog,” she snaps angrily, the Latin phrase not lost on her— she is a woman of science, after all— “and you lot are _not_ the proud wolves you claim to be. Though your people tend to act like they’re above all others, they are the worst. You are worse than raiders. You rally around a supposedly noble goal, but you rape and kill and subjugate just like those you seek to destroy.”

“The profligates must either be put down or assimilated,” Vulpes says coolly. “The Legion is only doing what is right for the Mojave and its own people.”

There’s no point in gracing that with a reply, the Courier realizes, because he has already hardened the words in his own head, made them so real they’re almost tangible to him. To change his mind would be a harder task than rebuilding the towns of the Divide from the powder they’ve been ground into. Her restraints suddenly begin to feel tighter, cutting into her flesh more viciously as she squirms against them.

“What’s our next move?” she says wearily, instead, because she just wants this to be over.

“In a few days time, we will return to Fortification Hill. You will be fastened with a collar to prevent escape and given all necessary medical supplies. Caesar’s procedure must be done as soon as possible, so that he may return to governing us posthaste.”

“And if I were to … mistakenly botch this procedure?” The desire to scratch a burgeoning itch on her nose is rage inducing. “What if the poor old man can’t handle the anesthesia? Or if my hand slips out of fear and I cut a blood vessel?”

Vulpes’ eyes narrow into slits. His expression becomes dark and venomous, and it makes her question her own bravery — or here, was it foolishness? “Mars help you then.” 

He’s quiet for so long that she wonders, vaguely, if this is the last time that she will ever use her tongue again, before he relaxes again and his tone becomes businesslike. “Now, the journey from here will be arduous. You may want to conserve your strength, as your hands will be bound the entire way.” 

“All right,” she intones. Drier than the desert. That is the way she will have to go about things if she even hopes to survive. Otherwise she might implode, or he might decide she’s not worth the effort. The Courier sighs. “Let me alone then, will you.” She tries to gather up what’s left of her dignity to turn away from him and ends up looking like a Brahmin calf rollicking clumsily in the mud. These damn ropes...

Once again, with the swiftness of his namesake, he’s close to her, and she recoils — though he might be considered pretty faced even among his enemies, he is as attractive to her as a swarm of bloatflies descending on a corpse. “Stay away from me,” she warns, though the threat falls into dust. They both know there is nothing she can do.

He leans in, on his knees, appraising her like a fur trader with his pelts. Takes a bit of her hair again — why is he so fixated on that? — and puts it to his cheek. “Your color is … beautiful,” he comments. “Like the bronze of the sun.”

“I said — “ she can get no farther before her mouth is suddenly covered by his, warm and wet. She squeaks and fights with everything she can as his tongue probes past her lips. Something inside her reaches up out of her throat and claws at her gag reflex, stirring nausea into her blood. It is a war between her, herself, and the Frumentarius in between. 

What lengths will he go to torture her? His eyes are open, the entire time, as hers had closed instinctively. They stare with a penetrating, terrifying malice that freezes her blood to ice. For the first time, the Courier realizes just how perilous the situation really is, and thoughts of the coming days scare her more than she will ever admit.

When he’s pulled away, she finds that she can kick her legs out again. He’d cut them loose in the distraction; she wonders if she could take this chance to spring to her feet and get away. The Legionaries don’t carry guns, just like her. Everyone else is still asleep. If she could incapacitate Vulpes just enough to get a few seconds, the others wouldn’t be able to catch her; fleeing is her specialty, after all.

But her arms are still bound. They are neck deep in Legion territory — and thanks to Caesar’s thoroughness, the whole army knows of her importance to him. The question of her identity, her unusual hair color is also a problem. As is a whole slew of other things. If she tried to run now, she wouldn’t even make it out of the cave, let alone the perilous, unyielding expanse of the Mojave Wasteland.

So she forces herself to relax. The only sign of strife on her face is the constant, even glare she levels him with. “Are you quite satisfied?” she bites out.

The grin on Vulpes’ face is nothing short of predatory. “Very much so.”

His gaze drags across her and splits her open from throat to belly, something burning in those cold blue eyes, so different from another pair she’d once been accustomed to. Without another word, he’s gotten up, calling for the others to wake for the long journey ahead. The less time they waste, he says, the better. Clearly he’d changed his mind about allowing her to rest some more. 

But at least she’s not dead yet. There are better ways to go out than this.

They head out of the cave like displaced mole rats, just as the sun inches up over the horizon, a sliver of light catching them in the eyes. A tumbleweed drifts by languidly, the winds of the desert going about their business as usual. During her own travels she’d never noticed it before, the charred, scorched aesthetic of her homeland.

In this desolate landscape, led to her unwilling capture by this band of reprehensible slavers, the Courier wishes more than ever that she could be free once again.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Lupus non timet canem latrantem _\- a wolf is not afraid of a barking dog.__


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Courier is brought into the Fort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright uh it’s been a looong time since I wrote for this fic, so have an update :)
> 
> I wanna say that I tried to experiment a bit with chronology and POV changes here, so if it reads a little funky or comes off as degraded in quality it wasn’t intended ;; I’m going through writers block so I’ve just been trying to power through and write as much as I can which is why this took so damn long haha.
> 
> As in the other chapters, there’re slight canon divergences here and there. For example the captured family you meet in Cottonwood cove do not appear in this iteration, things of that nature. I’ll stop talking now. Hope you like this chapter ^_^

The rest of the trip to Fortification Hill is unremarkable, at best; Vulpes refrains from touching her again for the entire time, leaving her relieved but trembling and nearly sick with worry. What if he tries something _worse_ on her? But he never does. Even the other men maintain their distance, their hands kept away by Vulpes’ icy glare and threats of punishment upon their return.

She can tell they’re nearby from the cries of sparring Legion initiates and weeping slave women within the throng of fortified, tented encampments. Caesar’s empire is one built on violence and bloodshed, carved from the tears and weaponry that fall into the earth wherever they come. A path to victory carved from human bone. It’s sickening to even think about the abuses people must suffer through here. The abuses that she, too, will be suffering shortly.

Vulpes gives her a knowing sidelong glance, the Vexillarius helmet giving him an extra set of deadened eyes to leer at her with. She resists the urge to scoff at him and proceeds at an even steadier pace than before, determined not to let him affect her any more. She will not let him best her.

The outline of piked heads and jagged picket fences shooting out of the ground like razor sharp teeth grow in size as their company gets closer to the Legion’s main stronghold. A pair of heavily armored Legionnaires stand alert at the door, backs rigid and betraying nothing. One of them allows the barest hint of surprise to briefly tamper with his impassive expression at the sight of the Courier, before it smooths over once more. The two guards nod at Vulpes, dipping their heads in submission, and shuffle out of his way. He returns their respect with a coolly polite expression, letting his gaze slide over them unseeingly as he drifts past them, the Courier and his men in tow.

Tossing her hair over her shoulder again — the wind has been hurling grit and sand and hair alike into her face since they began the journey — she wonders if the men will talk about her that night, reclining in their bedrolls. If they will marvel at her beauty, her value as a set of god-given holes, nothing more. If they will gossip about her at length, her elusive beauty tantalizing to all — and so painfully out of reach.

Again, that is merely what her eulogies say. The question of the real Courier, the flesh-and-blood woman that walks beaten and underpinned, the one that has no right to breathe the same air as even barbarians like these, is a different one entirely.

“Take her to the slave tent,” Vulpes nods to someone, his back to her. The Courier looks up to see a wispy looking girl, dressed in tattered rags and a sack hood that covers most of her face. It is a small mercy that she is allowed to keep her privacy. The guards offer her reins to the slave without complaint, and she takes them, leading the courier to a nearby enclosure, sloped with the color of sandbag beige. She keeps her eyes downcast the entire time and refuses to respond to the courier’s scarce attempts at conversation. 

In the tent they’re alone, and the silence is cold and despairing. The Courier wonders what the girl’s story is. If she has a family, if they’re here now or dead. Most likely the latter. She opens her mouth and begins to speak as the slave girl kneels before a rucksack and begins to rummage though it. 

“It seems as if they’ve been looking for me,” she says almost wistfully, ignoring the slave’s pointed silence, “for a long time. And they got me. I wonder what’ll happen next, and I’m — I’m a little scared.” 

Of course, her companion gives no response. The Courier takes it as an invitation to continue.

“For someone like you, this is life, isn’t it. Nothing more than a servant or a toy, if you’re unlucky enough to be pretty.” she says. Her heart goes out to the slaves here. She can overlook them capturing _her_ , as it is what she deserves, but she will never forgive the legion for ruining the lives of so many innocent people. Glorious empire her ass. It’s built on blood and bones.

“I wonder if I’ll ever be free again.” She takes a deep, shuddering sigh, unable to keep the tremor out of her voice. “I wonder if I’ll ever see Boone, or Veronica, or anyone ever again.” A derisive laugh rips its way out of her. “Bet they think I’ve abandoned them, back in Novac. At least they’re safe, right?”

The slave stands up suddenly, making her jump. She refuses to look up, but gives the Courier a single, almost imperceptible nod, before ducking out of the tent as swiftly as she’d ushered them in.

Now, the Courier can only wait for her judgement.

**~~**

A sniper, a scribe, and a sinner walk into a bar.

It was the setup for the perfect joke, but it was also how the three of them finally got to meet. After their demons were sorted out and exorcised, the only thing left to do was drink the residual feelings away.

Veronica’s new friend was something of a loner. If you looked past the days and days worth of red hair, there’d just be a plain, sad-looking woman underneath. She was peculiar. Worn, gaunt, yet confident and secure in her aims. She helped out wherever she was needed without batting an eye, something that was exceedingly rare anywhere in this day and age.

She walked into Veronica’s life on the 188 — well, it was the other way around — with the intention of leaving it unremarkably. That’s the way she seemed to roll, anyway. She came alone but said she had friends on the road she sought to protect. They had a conversation about love and the meaning of life before Veronica up and invited herself along to wherever the Courier was going.

Craig Boone joined them shortly after in Novac, another quiet loner who spent his off days brooding and sharpshooting for the NCR. He was a bereaved, military man who reeked of loss and booze, though you’d never expect it with how talented he was behind the scope of that rifle he always carried. Didn’t talk too much, either. Suffice it to say the roads were quiet and stifled conversation. Veronica had to do most of the talking, and even then it felt like no one was really listening, even though they tried to sound like they were.

All that changed after a splash of moonshine and a subsequent outpouring of personal feelings. Nothing like a good ol’ alcohol-powered heart-to-heart to get your gears whirring. There was a nice little bar in Goodsprings that gave their company a generous discount and a nice place to sit in the shade, so they grabbed the strongest stuff they could stomach and let loose.

And her friends’ tales were harrowing, to say the least. Boone’s pregnant wife was sold into slavery and the Courier committed what basically amounted to war crimes in a past, recent life. Hearing these two made Veronica feel like she’d had it easy. 

“...Tough break,” she’d commented, unsure of how else to react. Add a few hours and a few more ounces of vodka and they were loose lipped and sobbing together about the sanctity of Bighorner farming. Even Boone shed a tear or two. It was a manly sight to behold.

Their travels were short, though. Just as quickly as she’d decided to take them both along, the Courier dropped them off at her hotel room in Novac, told them to wait there, and disappeared. 

It had been three weeks since then. Veronica _could_ technically go back to the 188 trading post and wait for some other beautiful woman to sweep her off her feet like a lost puppy, or she could stay in this room and try to convince herself that the Courier was just taking a while longer than she originally intended to on whatever the hell she was doing. 

Okay, maybe a lot longer. 

She glanced over at Boone, who’d been staring at the same mildewed spot on the wall for three hours. He already lived here in Novac, so he didn’t really have to worry about getting home, but apparently he felt the same way about getting back to his responsibilities. “...hey, do you wanna go look for her together?”

It wasn’t the first time she’d asked. 

Boone shook his head. “She told us to wait.” 

Though the two of them weren’t as close as they each were to the Courier, Boone and Veronica had gained a sense of camaraderie over their mutual ghosting. Both of them were also _incredibly_ antsy about this whole deal. Something wasn’t right, they could feel it. Their friend wasn’t one to take this long to come back, and she certainly wouldn’t just abandon them, either. It was only due to Boone’s steadfast loyalty and militarism that caused him to insist upon staying put for so long. 

“She’s not the type to just leave us hanging like that, Craig,” Veronica muttered as she readjusted her hood, “there’s definitely something weird going on.”

“Might be,” Boone pulled a cig out of his pocket. He lit it up with disinterest and took a slow drag. “But it’s the Courier’s business if she wants to keep it that way.”

“C’mon, for all we know, she might be dead in a ditch somewhere!” Veronica’s expression turned pleading. “Or worse… I think we should see if she’s all right, at least.”

Boone said nothing, letting the silence drift between them like the curls of smoke escaping from his mouth. Veronica turned to look at him, inscrutable. At this rate, she’d have to go alone. It wasn’t like she had anything to worry about; she packed a mean punch even without her power fist on and could probably defend herself on her own, but it would’ve been nice to not have to worry about getting close to an opponent with a sniper like Boone shooting targets from a mile away before they’d even had a chance to react. The man was _terrifying_ sometimes.

But if Boone didn’t come with her, she’d just have to be more careful. For the Courier, though, she’d manage.

Veronica was about to relay this to Boone before she saw him stand up. Sometimes she really wished she could tell what he was thinking. Currently, his face was expressionless, though his sunglasses were slightly askew. She was about to ask if something was up before he frowned slightly, and she instantly knew what his answer would be. Though he despised showing it, the Courier was just as special to him too.

“Okay,” Boone deadpanned.

Veronica clapped her hands in excitement. “Right, great. Let me get ready.”

~~

It took them about three days to catch a lead. The Courier was practically worshipped by nearly every person they’d come across, so it turned out to be no secret that she’d been seen, tied up and in the company of a large company of Legion soldiers. Her and Boone had just finished up infiltrating a camp of them situated on the other side of the river at Cottonwood Cove. All they’d have to do now was sail across to the Fort.

The hilly, narrow region was long and sloped. They’d passed through Camp Searchlight dosed on a liberal amount of Rad-X, killing all the poor souls who’d gone feral there. Boone had become absolutely terrifying after seeing his folks in that condition, so he’d set to work taking it out on their opponents as soon as they’d reached the base camp, which was littered with scarlet flags and small, shuttered buildings.

She hadn’t expected it to be that easy. They’d taken care of everyone in minutes, Boone putting shots between people’s eyes like it was the most natural thing in the world. With a shudder, she wondered how differently it might’ve gone without him there, and thanked her lucky stars once again that he’d agreed to come along. 

“We done here?” the sniper asked distastefully, dropping the body of a scout to the floor like it was a sack of yeast. The site was empty; save for a still-burning campfire and the faint smell of burning flesh, it was as if it’d been abandoned entirely with how thorough they were.

“Should be,” Veronica nodded.

“So what’s the plan?”

That part she was still working out. “...Ask me again in a bit,” she responded, chewing her lip. Getting to Cottonwood Cove was only the beginning. Now they had to figure out how to get into the Fort. Hopefully with as little casualty as possible. “Hey, Craig?”

“Yeah?”

Veronica’s smile was hesitant and small. “Can I trust you to keep cool once we get inside?”

The Courier had avoided taking them into places that were too swarmed full of Legion if she could help it. Something about how Boone was almost suicidal in his single-minded quest to exterminate any and all members of the Legion that came within his crosshairs. Neither of them could blame him; they _had_ taken his family from him after all.

But if he pulled that now, it was practically guaranteed that they’d be walking into their deaths. That tunnel vision of his was better suited outside of situations where they could easily be outnumbered and overwhelmed.

“No,” Boone said brusquely, confirming her worries. The look in his eyes was like burning flesh. Veronica waited for him to continue, but he returned her expectant glance with the same stoic, emotionless silence he always wore around people.

“Okay then, big guy,” she sighed, patting his shoulder. Boone scowled at her but she ignored it as she scanned the perimeter, “maybe you should sit this one out then.”

“Fine by me,” shrugged Boone as he shouldered his rifle, electing to trudge along the emptied buildings. He perked up, so suddenly it made Veronica flinch, and stopped in front of one of the doors, scowling into it like he could see what was inside. Without waiting for a response, he kicked the door down.

“Craig —!” Veronica shouted, alarmed. 

There was no response. She took a step forward, prepared to call to him again, before Boone reemerged, lugging something heavy and whimpering out along with him by the arm. “Thought I heard something,” he said as he roughly nudged the figure forward.

It was small and hunched over, face hidden. Making soft gasping noises and trembling. Boone had taken his rifle in both hands and was now pointing it squarely at the figure, a thunderous look on his face.

“Let her go, she’s a slave!” Veronica cried out as the realization caught up with her shock. Dressed in tattered rags and a flimsy looking head-wrap, there was no way this person was willingly here. “Look at her — she’s not even armed, she isn’t one of them!” At that, Boone shrugged again and relaxed his aim. The slave dropped to her knees with a jarred, shaking sigh.

“Hey, are you okay?” asked the scribe. Surprised, the woman jerked up in fright, the snap of her neck almost audible in the foreboding quiet. She was a thin, wispy looking woman who seemed as though the wind itself could topple her at any moment. “We aren’t going to hurt you, but I have a couple of questions. Is that all right?”

“You’re…” the slave glanced back at Boone, at his red beret and sunglasses. “You’re not Legion. NCR? That means … that means they’re coming. You’ll free us, won’t you?” 

“Slow down,” Boone intoned sharply, causing her to let out a frightened squeak.

“What my emotionally repressed companion means to say,” Veronica soothed, throwing him a withering look, “is no, it’s just us. What can you tell us about getting into the Fort? Our friend was captured by Legion soldiers and we think she might’ve been brought here.”

The slave had deflated considerably, but she nodded. “That — that’s likely. We haven’t had anyone come through recently, though.”

“Oh…” Veronica echoed.

“But I did overhear some soldiers earlier, while I was …” she trailed off, a hollow, haunted expression on her face. She shook her head. Veronica wondered if she should ask further, but thought against it. Best to not traumatize her anymore than she already was. “A-anyway, they were talking about having captured a … a ‘Phoenix’? Is that a code name?”

Boone and Veronica exchanged a glance. “Go on,” she said.

“Well, they should be here soon, from what I heard.”

So she wasn’t exactly in the Fort yet. Veronica could work with that. Mulling over what she’d just learned as she stared absently at the slave woman, it was like a lightbulb had suddenly gone off in her head. She knew what to do. “Craig.”

“Yeah?”

“I want you to take this pretty lady out to Novac with you. Let her stay at the Courier’s place for a while.” She frowned to herself, then offered the woman in question a reassuring smile. “I’m sure she won’t mind if — say, I never got your name.”

“What? Oh. Carly. It’s … Carly,” Carly said, and Veronica watched as Boone froze. She looked around nervously. “What are you planning to do?”

The scribe had half a mind to just come out and ask Boone what was up with him, but his face had gone white. She glanced at him for a moment, bewildered, before returning her attention to Carly. “We’re gonna bust you and our friend out. Hopefully in that order. But first…” 

“Yeah?”

“I’m going to need your clothes.” At her alarmed look, Veronica backpedaled nervously. “No no, not for anything like that. I mean let’s switch outfits. I need to get into the Fort and you want out, right? Craig here will keep you safe, he’s First Recon. We got a place back in Novac that belonged to our friend, so you can stay there without any fear.” She paused, letting a wan smile flicker across her lips. “You’re safe now.”

Hesitant joy blossomed on the escapee’s face. “Okay, I ... trust you.”

“Veronica,” Boone piped up suddenly, uncharacteristic of him. It was one of the rare times he’d ever called her by name. She turned to him and he was wearing an expression of utter discomfort, something like indecision and — was that _worry?_ —burning there. “You realize once you’re in, you probably won’t be able to get back out on your own.”

The scribe swallowed around what felt like a mouthful of sawdust. ”You underestimate me, Craig Boone.”

Beside them, Carly began to unwrap the cloth hood which had been obscuring her face with trembling fingers, revealing a shock of bright yellow hair that pooled around her shoulders. Veronica took this as a signal to remove her own headwrap, pulling it off and handing it to the refugee. As they exchanged outfits, Boone slipped away, uncomfortable. Something was grating on him and everyone could tell. It filled the air around them like lightning, terse and unpredictable.

When it was said and done Veronica found herself dressed in the faded rags typical of a Legion slave, though she had to admit her original clothing hadn’t been much better in terms of flimsiness. She and the now ex-slave were around the same size, so it worked out well. Carly fitted the scribe’s hood over her own ears and gave her a faint smile.

“I don’t think I’ll ever be able to thank you enough for this,” she stuttered, brown eyes shiny.

“You don’t have to,” Veronica reassured, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. “No one deserves what you had to go through.”

Boone’s rough voice made them start. “What’s your plan after you get in the Fort?”

“I have to find the Courier first,” Veronica explained, “then we can figure out what to do from there. I just —“ she gave him a pleading look. “I just wanna know if she’s okay.”

There was a quiet, meaningful pause. “Me too,” Boone said softly, after a while. Carly gave them both a brave nod of agreement.

“I hope you find your friend,” she whispered. Boone grabbed her by the arm, causing her to flinch again. At the movement, he let go instantly, like he’d burned her.

The sniper cleared his throat awkwardly, avoiding her eyes. “We should go before they start getting suspicious,” he muttered. Carly gave him a nervous, appraising once-over; then, apparently satisfied with what she’d seen, made to follow. Over her shoulder she threw a last, grateful glance, one that Veronica returned with as much courage-fueled reassurance as possible. Uncertainty and fear pooled in her stomach as she did so.

“Craig!” she called out one final time.

Boone stopped, Carly in tow. “What is it?”

“If I — _we_ — don’t make it out in...three weeks,” she swallowed hard, breathing deeply. “Come get us.”

It felt as though she were giving him permission to step in and sacrifice himself and it didn’t sit right with her at all. Veronica knew Boone was itching to die this way, staring into the scope of his gun as he put down those that’d wronged him; he was too broken up inside to want to keep going the way he was. Not knowing _just_ how loved or appreciated he was saddened her. He’d jump on this opportunity to redeem himself without a second thought, without even a moment of consideration. In whose eyes? Veronica wasn’t sure if Boone himself knew the answer.

But she was sure she could get the two of them out before it got that bad. The Courier wasn’t called the Phoenix for no reason — they’d made a powerful team out on the wild, untamed roads of the Mojave. What were a bunch of slaving, pillaging, ridiculously-dressed scumbags other than slightly tougher punching bags or raiders?

Boone gave her a brief nod, and a two fingered salute which she returned with a slightly heavy heart. Veronica turned to the open water before her, hearing twin pairs of footsteps fade into silence. She could walk out into the docks and pick any barge she saw. Mentally rehearsing her speech — _I was sent to deliver a parcel to the cursor stationed at the entrance, I was sent to deliver a parcel to the cursor stationed at the entrance —_ she selected a rather bedraggled looking vessel, a shoddy, worn-looking thing that probably wouldn’t do her any favors, and hopped in, wincing as it trembled under the weight. Water and her did _not_ get along well. Especially deep, murky water...if she were to fall in...

No. Veronica shook the thoughts out of her head. She had to focus. “Parcel, entrance, cursor, got it,” she muttered to herself as she began to row, the waves parting against her oars. _I’m coming for you, Courier._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Carly’s an OC I might branch out and write another story with. If it wasn’t apparent, Boone gets super uncomfortable bc her name sounds so similar to Carla’s. I already have a different sequel written for this universe (am I a clown who finished the sequel before finishing the original work? Yes, yes I am.) and I might post that after this one ends. But that’s a long way to go. Let me know what you think.
> 
> Oh, and be sure to leave kudos if you liked it :)

**Author's Note:**

> _Leave a kudos and/or comment if you feel it’s deserved! Thank you!_


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